‘Sir,’ the young man said, his face wholesomely indignant. ‘You don’t understand. This is an emergency situation. We came over to visit my ­Grand-­aunt May and were greeted with an incredibly heavy smell of what we are convinced is leaking gas in the ­second-­storey hall. We went from door to door to advise people to get out.’

‘As instructed by the fire brigade,’ the young woman vouched.

‘Ah, well,’ Bobby said. ‘I’m on the third floor anyway.’

‘The whole building’s potentially unsafe!’ the young woman said.

She was also in a denim ­shirt – pink to the young man’s baby ­blue – her expression as sincerely vexed as his. They were dressed like an unironic ­country-­and-­western duo.

‘Do you fuckers sing?’ Bobby asked.

‘W-­what?’ the young man responded.

Bobby seized on their confusion to insert his key in the lock and deftly open the door. He squeezed into the brief gap, then held the door fast behind him as the young man tried to pull it open.

‘What the hell!’ the girl shouted.

‘I’m off to bed and nobody can stop me,’ Bobby snarled. ‘If the place goes up, tell them I went in willingly.’

There was indeed an incredibly heavy smell of what may well have been gas in the building, though to Bobby’s cultivated faculties there was a faint but unmistakably herby ­back ­note to the atmosphere. Bobby suspected grass, a specialised or customised blend. But, then, he was drunk, his faculties impaired. Maybe it was gas, and not some ageing stoners toking obliviously away in their apartment. Bobby went carefully up the stairs. He tried to recall the things you were meant to do and not to do in order to avoid combusting. Ventilate space where possible, no naked flames, and be careful touching things lest friction prompt a catastrophic spark of static electricity. Something along those lines.

He unlocked his door and went into his apartment. He opened a window. He booted up his laptop, began preparing a joint with Becky’s weed. He checked his mail. One of his oldest and most reliable clients, PussySlayer112, was back with a new request.

‘Good old PussySlayer ­one-­one-­two,’ Bobby muttered.